by Megan Derr
Beraht halted before the fireplace and scowled at the flames. In the pocket of his jacket, the vials of red arcen seemed to burn.
He could show them how necessary shadow killing was. Show that stupid, smug, arrogant, thick-headed, brutal, aggravating bastard that shadow killing had its place. It'd be easy. They wouldn't be expecting magic. Not one lone soldier believed to be hiding away, half-buried in snow in the heart of Illussor.
What would he have to do? Beraht turned away from the fire as his thoughts raced, moving to gather those things he would need as he thought of them. Winter clothing, though he grimaced as he realized he was pulling out not the clothes that had been provided to him since his arrival, but the gear he had taken from Kria. Quickly he stripped out of his clothes and slid into the heavier, cold-weather clothing. He sat down in the chair by the fire to pull off his palace boots and replace them with sturdy winter boots, pulling the lacing tight.
Food shouldn't be too big a concern. He could transfer to that weird temple—Beraht shook his head, disconcerted to think so suddenly of that temple. It seemed so long ago… He snorted softly. The cold was obviously freezing what little remained of his mind.
Disgusted with himself, Beraht reordered his scattering thoughts and retrieved a small travel pack from his wardrobe. Quickly, he filled it with whatever necessities were readily accessible—which were not much, as he dared not leave the confines of his room. Shouldering the bag, he then scooped up his fur-lined cloak from the bed and swung it around his shoulders, fastening it with a plain iron pin. It was heavy, but warm and made to encumber his movements as little as possible. The Krians didn't know much, but they knew how to fight well no matter what the weather.
Ready, Beraht drew a deep breath to steady himself then drew out one of the vials hidden in his jacket. The arcen held the barest hints of red in the firelight. Grimacing, knowing what he was in for, Beraht pulled the stopper free and downed the contents in one quick swallow.
He dropped the vial to the carpet, weaving unsteadily as the arcen hit his system. It was hot and cold, bitter and sour. It tasted like bile, and thinking that did not help. Pressing one hand to his mouth, he forced himself to think calming thoughts and not about the taste in his mouth, the almost painful, tingling sensation flooding his body. Beraht grasped the back of a nearby chair and hauled himself to his feet.
For several minutes he stood there, taking deep slow breaths and letting the arcen settle into his system. He could feel the effects of it all too well and only knew them for what they were because he had always made it a point to understand arcen. It was all he'd ever had.
He ignored the voice that tried to say he had more now. What did he have? A Krian name that would be carved into his Illussor headstone someday? He'd taken away magic, and people wouldn't thank him for that until he was buried beneath that headstone. Ignoring the stubborn voices in his head, he finally released his tight grip on the chair. Pulling his cloak more tightly around him, Beraht called up in his mind the spell he would need, then cast it.
And he vanished.
*~*~*
Could it get any colder? Beraht morosely pondered the merits of taking out a few soldiers to help himself to their tea, but reluctantly conceded that probably wasn't the best idea. Yet.
As much as he hated to admit it, the cold was working to his favor. With the snow coming down, not quite heavy enough to make travel impossible, but enough to muffle his movements, everyone was bedded down or otherwise sheltered. Even Krians, it seemed, could only tolerate so much of it.
It was dark, which made things problematic, but the various fires and the fact he wore Krian clothing went a long way toward solving that problem. Slipping through the camp full of cold and miserable soldiers was almost scarily easy. Especially when he considered the last Krian camp he'd snuck into—
Thoroughly disgusted that he'd allowed thoughts of the stars refused bastards to slip in, Beraht refocused on his mission and wended his way through the tents, making his way slowly through the Cobalt camp toward the tent in the center. The brilliant blue standard was caked with snow and hanging limply from its pole before the large tent of the Cobalt General.
Egon von Kortig—according to everyone, including von Adolwulf, this man had a taste for torture. Beraht wasn't going to feel very sorry about killing him. The dimming spell he used worked like a charm as he bypassed the guards and slipped into the tent.
Inside, a single candle burned. The tent was thick and heavy, enough so that no shadows would be visible to those outside—not that anyone was awake enough to notice him. So he hoped, anyway. This was a lot more dangerous than sneaking into the camp of a single general.
Shunting his thoughts to the side, Beraht focused on the task at hand. He was a shadow killer. He had been trained for it from the very moment he'd shown a talent after helping to kill Krian scouts.
Carefully, slowly, he moved to the cot where von Kortig lay sleeping. He leaned his head down close, listening to the breathing patterns. Wine was heavy on von Kortig's breath, an unexpected bonus. Nodding, Beraht rose back to his full height and carefully grasped von Kortig, slowly turning him to his side so that he faced away. Then with a few whispered words and a motion of his finger, he sliced von Kortig's throat. Beraht grimaced at the wet gurgling sounds von Kortig made and let him fall forward to bleed into his bedding.
One down, two generals and possibly even a Kaiser to go. Making certain his dimming spell still held, Beraht turned and slipped back out of the tent, past the half-frozen guards—stupid arrogant Krians, it was a wonder no one had managed this successfully before—and slowly made his way out of the Cobalt camp and toward the Verdant.
It took him nearly two hours to make his way through the Verdant camp. The soldiers there were far more alert, though Beraht was forced to concede again that even they paled in comparison to the Scarlet. Bastard. He had to slink more carefully to get to the tent of the Verdant General, Ludwig von Eisenberg. Going through the front wouldn't work as it had in the Cobalt camp, so Beraht gingerly worked his way around to the back, waiting patiently for the patrol to pass, then slipped beneath and into the tent.
He stilled as it became obvious that von Eisenberg was only just asleep; he moved restlessly, like a man who had fallen asleep but was too restless to stay that way for long. Beraht waited several minutes then slowly began to stand up.
Shouts and the blowing of horns abruptly shattered the night. Beraht swore. This time of night, he had not expected them to have found any of the dead generals so quickly. Stars refuse them all!
On his cot, von Eisenberg twisted around to his back and sat up. He started to speak, but Beraht wasted no time bolting forward, grabbing von Eisenberg's head with one hand, and raking the fingers of his free hand across Eisenberg's throat with the other. Hot blood gushed over his hands and arm before he finally dropped the dying general.
The tent flaps flew open, soldiers in dark green shouting for their general to come at once—they froze in shock as they registered both von Eisenberg lying in his own blood and Beraht standing over him.
Beraht had used a very precisely aimed razor spell to slit the throats of the two generals. It was a nasty spell, one the Krians loathed with particular vehemence. Using it the way he had, guiding the movement of the magic with his hand, controlled it and burned as little arcen as necessary.
Now he threw the spell out, attacking the men much as Tawn had attacked Iah and Sol. The men cried out in shock and pain, blood spurting and spilling, but they drew their swords anyway, lunging forward. Beraht threw out another spell, knocking one man down, giving him an opening—
—Pain flashed in his head as he exited the tent then all he saw was black.
Chapter Twenty Six
Beraht woke with a groan, feeling as though his head had been split in half. What in the stars—
"Well, well, the nasty little Salharan-Illussor scum wakes. My men didn't hit you that hard. Weak Salharan blood."
"Stars refus
e you," Beraht snarled through the dizzying pain. He'd hoped not to see the stupid Kaiser again until he was slitting the bastard's throat. Stars, what had happened? He'd made it out of the tent, but someone had obviously gotten the better of him.
There was still plenty of arcen in his system, however.
"Heilwig," Benno said. Beraht tilted his head up, immediately regretting the movement and grateful there was nothing in his stomach to toss up. The beautiful, but cold, Heilwig von Dresden stood over him. She held a vial of—stars above where had they gotten cleansers?
"Hold him," Heilwig ordered, and Beraht was suddenly gripped hard by the shoulders, another hand keeping a hold of his throat, making it impossible for him to breathe or talk.
Heilwig grabbed his nose then pulled the stopper from the bottle she held with her teeth. She shoved the vial into his mouth, forcing the thick, grayish substance down his throat. It had the soured-milk taste of a cleanser, but was much more viscous than it should have been. Cleansers were usually thin and watery. This was like drinking syrup—or concentrated arcen.
The grip on his throat released just as his vision began to go black, and in gasping for breath, he was forced to swallow the noxious substance. Dizziness and nausea washed over him as the substance took effect, confirming that it was in fact a cleanser. Concentrated and potent. Beraht's stomach heaved, and he retched violently on the ground, emptying his stomach of things he hadn't thought could still be in it. He heaved until his muscles ached, and his throat was raw, wiping bile and saliva from his lips with the back of his hand. "What—"
With dismay he could feel the arcen already dying in his system. His stomach clenched as it tried to empty itself, not realizing it was already thoroughly empty. The potent cleanser was wreaking havoc with his body.
Instead of answering him, Heilwig merely shoved another vial down his throat. Beraht fought and struggled, but he was weak from the first bout and the hands holding him were far stronger than he.
By the time the second vial had been swallowed, Beraht was barely able to see straight. By the time they'd made him swallow a third, he was all but sobbing in pain, bending over, shudders wracking his body and sweat dripping down his face despite the cold.
"Like that, Salharan? Or are you Illussor? It's so hard to tell…" Benno's voice was idle, almost lazy in tone, but Beraht knew from experience his eyes would be hard and cold. "A clever little creation of my unfortunate Cobalt General, though I wonder how great a general he could have been to have fallen so easily to filth like you. Obviously he was useless when taken out of his fortress."
Beraht finally managed to lift his head. "Von Eisenberg wasn't terribly impressive, either." He grunted when von Dresden backhanded him and licked the blood from his lips. Lifting his eyes to Von Dresden, he sneered. "You would have been next." This time he made no sound at all as the back of her hand cracked hard and painful across his face.
"That liquid you just drank was, as I'm sure you've realized, highly concentrated cleanser. It burns the arcen immediately from your system. What's more, you've swallowed so much of it that I doubt your body will ever again tolerate arcen." Benno's smile was infuriatingly smug.
Only the fact that he was too weak to move kept Beraht from punching the expression off his face. Never use arcen again… Surely that was a lie. The cleansers had been potent, and he was going to be sick for weeks after being made to drink so much at once, but he could not believe it had completely destroyed his ability to use arcen. Absurd.
Benno motioned. "Tie him up in front of my tent. See he doesn't freeze to death, but do no more." He stood up and approached Beraht, grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to look up. "Your eyes—when we captured you they were red. Now they are merely yellow again. The color of the general you did not kill, and who has helped ruin what was probably the only skill you had." He laughed coldly. "Though the stupid Deceivers obviously think you're worth something. How valuable are you, I wonder? I suppose we shall see."
"What do you mean?" Beraht demanded, hating the hoarse rasping that was his voice.
He was released roughly and toed over to lie on his back. Benno loomed over him. Beraht glared hatefully back. "We've already sent a ransom demand for you," Benno explained.
Beraht tried to laugh, but the movement hurt too much. "All you Krians are mad! I once told that bastard what I will tell you now: no one will pay a ransom for me."
"You had better hope you are wrong," Benno said, planting one foot on Beraht's stomach and slowly putting his weight behind it, not letting up until Beraht finally let out a choked gasp of pain. "If they do not bring the ransom I have demanded, you will die slowly and painfully. You killed two of my generals. If you think three vials of that cleanser were bad, wait until we feed you a dozen more and then make you drink this." He pulled a familiar looking vial from within his dark, heavy cloak.
Beraht paled. His second vial of concentrated red arcen.
"I see you begin to understand. You should not have much to fear, though, Salharan. All I want in exchange is my Scarlet General. No one will mind parting with him, not when they have apparently taken all that remains of my Scarlet Army."
What little hope Beraht had held out that someone might rescue him, trade for him, died. It was more painful than he thought it should have been, forcing him to the bitter realization that he'd liked the strange life he'd seemed to have acquired in his brief stay in Illussor. There'd been no guarantee it would last, but he had been willing to see it through. Now he never would.
His role was over. He was of no further use to Illussor, not now that he'd served his purpose as the Breaker. More important to Prince Matthias and all the others—he admitted begrudgingly—was the bastard who could teach them to fight in the Krian style. There was no choice there. Better to let him die.
Beraht didn't bother to resist as men hauled him up and tied him up in front of the Kaiser's tent. Though the fires were close enough to provide warmth, and they gave him blankets aplenty and a bedroll to separate him from the cold ground, all he felt was cold.
*~*~*
"I am going to kill him," Dieter said slowly and precisely, enunciating every word as though it took great effort to form them.
Given that he was barely unclenching his jaw to do it, Matthias didn't doubt a great deal of effort was, in fact, required. "I'm sure he meant well—"
Dieter glared at the missive on his desk. "I am certain that idiot never thought it through enough to realize how stupid he was being. He is far too impulsive to be a soldier; I am amazed he's lived this long."
Matthias wisely did not point out that it was only because of Dieter that Beraht was still alive. "I think Beraht always intends to do what he feels is best." He smothered a laugh as Dieter's glower only darkened further. "So what should we do?"
"I am going to get that fool back so that I can kill him myself," Dieter said, standing. Nearby, one of his attendants came forward with his heavy cloak. Dieter turned to Reinhard. "Assemble a guard to escort me as far as the border. Make certain that any Illussor who are willing are included; it is their country being defended, after all."
"Are you sure it's wise?" Kalan asked as he walked with deceptive casualness into the room and leaned idly against the wall beside the large map covering most of it. "It seems to me Benno wants nothing less than your head on a spit."
Dieter grunted. "At the very least. You are suggesting we leave Beraht to die?" Matthias lifted a brow at the chill that entered Dieter's voice. Though Dieter was never soft about anything, he was never quite that cold.
"Of course not," Kalan said calmly. "I simply mean sending you out there is not the best way to handle things. We risk losing both of you."
"I will be fine," Dieter said. "This is a matter I should have settled a long time ago. I will end it now."
Kalan looked at him, eyes sharp. "There is something personal here."
Dieter did not reply, merely stalked past them and out the door, his retainers and attendants falling
into step around him before gradually breaking off to attend to some duty or errand. Matthias walked not far behind with Kalan at his side, but cut left where Dieter kept going straight, moving to the balcony that overlooked the main courtyard while Dieter headed for the courtyard.
When Dieter reached it, Reinhard and what looked to be about a hundred men stood at attention, patiently waiting. More than half were Illussor. Dieter nodded to all of them and mounted his horse as it was brought to him. He turned to face Matthias.
"Be cautious, but victorious," Matthias said. "We have never let the Krians defeat us before, we will not now. Go with the Goddess."
Dieter saluted him and turned his horse around to lead the way from the courtyard, barking commands in sharp, guttural Krian. His men were relearning how to fight in the Krian style even down to the language. Matthias chuckled softly.
"This is foolish," Esta said, coming up behind him. "Can we really trust him? How do we know this is not some trap or—"
Matthias cut her off with a sharp shake of his head. "He is my general, Duchess."
Beside him Kalan laughed, oblivious to or uncaring of the nasty look Esta shot him "At any rate, I do not doubt for a moment that he intends to rescue Beraht and at the very least beat him senseless before tying him down someplace so he'll stay out of trouble."
A strange look Matthias couldn't place flickered across Esta's face at Kalan's words. "There is that," she finally said. "I suppose I should tell the healers to be ready for trouble of some form or another." Muttering to herself, Esta tucked a stray bit of hair back into the tidy braid coiled around the back of her head and gathered the skirts of her maroon gown, turning away to tend her duties and not bothering to bid them farewell.
Kalan looked after her, both brows raised. "What does she know that we don't?"
"Who knows," Matthias said with a roll his eyes. "Women always know everything; they like to hoard the information until it can be used to maximum effect. Especially Esta."